7 Days Until Execution
by TheMRArrowHill92
Summary: Larry Wade recounts his entire life, and his time as leader of the Blood-Syndicate. He does this all before his execution.


**Author's note: Hello everyone. This is MR Hill who wrote the Static series a while ago during the summer. I still have the files, but unfortunately, I edited them all on this website instead of on the computer. Terrible mistake and I apologize for those who wanted to complete the story. But I believe I was being too ambitious and the story ended up getting too much for me. I had to take care of some family problems in my absence, and I also had a lot of college work to do. Until I can get that Static story back up again and think of the perfect way to edit it all into a movie-one huge document uploaded right here-I'll be posting up an idea that was floating around in my head during the summer that I was gonna put in an episode. Larry Wade's journal when he goes to jail. This was supposed to be a Season 2 plot-line for when I finished one. But I'm making this very self-contained instead. I'm not sure if people are gonna like it. It reads a little ratchet, but I think it fits his character. I tried to make sure he doesn't sound too ignorant. Tell me if you think it reads realistic. If not, that's great feedback. Have fun everyone and Happy Thanksgiving!**

November 17th, 1997.

I saw my friend bleed, and I pulled the trigger.

My name's Larry Wade. I'm 17 years old, and I'm in prison for murder. But not for the murder of my friend, but for the murder of someone who my friend was close with. Now this person I didn't know too well, but as I understand they were like family. I'm not much of a good writer-far from it, but niggas been telling me up in here to write something so I can vent all this bullshit going on in my head. 'Cause basketball ain't helping. Lifting weights? Nigga please, that ain't doing shit for me. Not even the coke niggas be smuggling in here that's starting to taste like that Willy Wonka crap. Hell, yesterday, I found out the coke really was just that Willy Wonka candy mixed with chalk. Fucked up. Not even the weed, and fuck just no drugs help me out. And with no women in here, a nigga can lose his mind if he don't get desperate. And unfortunately, yesterday I found myself looking at someone's ass in the shower. But I looked away and just thought about how fat and thick my girl's ass used to be before she passed away. Fat asses are always the best because there's a cushion effect involved. The ass cheeks just pushes you back, making you want get right back up in her and shit. Not her actual shit. You know what I'm saying right? So this journal I guess you could say is giving me some solace right about now. I didn't think it'd work, but now that I'm writing, I'm starting to feel good. And that nigga that teaches us English? He told us writing helps fuel our imagination. Nigga's right. I feel my imagination flowing. Watch out Hollywood! Imma be like Spike Lee and do the right thing soon! Ha! Nah, that was corny. Fuck it.

Dead-ass, I feel like my man Pac right now. Rest in peace by the way to him and Biggy. There is a Heaven for a G. Some of the niggas was playing that earlier today and we all just chilled to it. Prison's not really what I thought it'd be like. Us chilling like that sometimes and listening to the music calming us down. Whenever I'm around the niggas listening to music, and I don't mean to sound corny and shit, but I feel like a little kid again listening to my Mom sing in the kitchen just before dinner as she was cooking the chicken. Damn man, I still remember those soothe melodies. Almost makes me want to cry. But fuck that. Forget about my Mom. I know you don't even want to hear that. The niggas say I can make some money off of this and I'm not gonna lie, I want to make some money and provide for my little daughter. Give her at least something to show her that daddy ain't the piece of shit they call me on the news. And I'm not gonna lie, I want to take this opportunity to tell Virgil Hawkins I'm sorry. Despite our differences, I still loved that little nigga like a brother, and I wish him the best in his future endeavors. I believe he will accomplish great things. Me? I got nothing but seven days, a picture of my daughter, these pages, and the memories I'll put on them. I'm sitting here on death row awaiting my execution. People keep telling me to do all this thematic shit in my writing. Hold back things and make hooks because people like them. So whatever. I'll do that if it means more food for my daughter.

Now I gotta take a shit, and I'll be back. When I do, that's when I'll tell you about everything. All my firsts. Girlfriends, kills, yeah, the first time I sparred with Static, the blood-syndicate I lead. All of that shit. I don't get why, but niggas tell me people just love all that exploitive stuff. I may have lead a gang, but that was out of a _need_. If I was born in some suburbs or to a rich father, fuck that shit. You think I loved gutting someone's eyes out? You think I loved shooting my friend? You think I loved watching my Mom die and I wasn't able to do shit about it? _Hell no_. But I'll write it because I know that's not the only way I'll confront my demons as they say, but also so my little daughter and my cousins ain't starving.

So I'll be back. Just up to you if you feel like turning the page once this is published. If not, whatever. If you do, I got something for you. I got something for everyone. Virgil? I'm talking to you now. You were right. About everything. I dedicate this to you, to my Mom, to all the dead soldiers I knew, and I especially dedicate this to my baby girl Tasha. You read this when you get older in a few years, I hope you understand why I did all the things I did. I did this for family. This is for family.


End file.
